


Grin

by ObsidianJade



Category: Bon Jovi
Genre: Humor, Language, M/M, exhibitionism (mild), voyeurism (mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days later, he walked in on Jon frantically yanking the zipper of his pants up while Richie insolently wiped his mouth, smirking like the cat who’d just gotten the canary... or the cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grin

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, Tico Torres, and David Bryan are all real people and property of themselves. This story is a work of imagination, no harm is implied or intended and there is no monetary gain.

Richie had a grand total of two speeds: flat-out and full stop. The flat-out lasted anywhere from sixteen to twenty-two hours a day, depending on the amount of stimulants involved, and generally meant a tornadic swirl of notebook paper, guitars, and lewd jokes. When the flat-out ran out, though, it was generally over a grand total of about ten minutes, at the end of which Richie pretty much fell over and then couldn’t be woken up by anything shy of cymbals being bashed two inches from his ear.

(This was not, by the way, an exaggeration. Tico had been forced to drag out out a pair of cymbals one night to get Richie back on his feet, and Richie had bitched about the ringing in his ear for two weeks afterword, until Tico had finally pointed out that it probably had more to do with thirty-odd years of cranking his amps up too high when he was fucking around with his guitars than anything Tico had done.

All of Tico’s drumsticks disappeared the next day, only to be rediscovered distributed throughout all of the toilets in the studio, but Richie stopped complaining about his ear, so Tico figured that getting a new batch of drumsticks was probably a fair trade.)

The funny thing about Richie falling over was that, no matter where they happened to be - in a hotel, on the plane, at the studio, hell, in a fucking _diner_ \- Richie usually managed to land on Jon.

His head would start nodding one minute, and the next it was abruptly planted on Jon’s shoulder, or occasionally in his lap. It didn’t particularly bother Jon from what they could tell, so Tico and Dave and the rest just shrugged it off as Richie being, well, Richie. There was only so much logic you could apply to a guy who displayed the mentality of a perverted, attention-deficit eighteen year old half the time _anyway_ , and, well, hell, Jon and Richie were two halves of a whole and the heart of the band. If they wanted to cuddle, it was up to them.

They were back home at the studio again, most recent tour behind them and Jon swearing up one side and down the other that he was _never fucking doing that again_ even as his phone rang, with his agent on the other end of the line asking questions about next year’s touring schedule. Jon muttered something the rest of them couldn’t quite make out and shut his phone off, throwing himself backwards on the couch and snarling. Richie sat down next to him and promptly toppled over sideways to land on Jon’s shoulder, already snoring.

After a couple of weeks, it became perfectly normal to walk into the studio’s crash-room at the end of a long day and see Jon sitting on the couch with Richie curled beside him, sound asleep with his head in Jon’s lap. Eventually, Jon took to propping a notebook up against the back of Richie’s head as the other man slept, and would carefully jot song ideas on the pages, humming the melody and tapping the rhythm against Richie’s shoulder. Once or twice, Tico was willing to swear he heard Richie humming along in his sleep.

And then one day, he walked in to find the two on the couch as usual, except Richie was on his back instead of his side, his head and shoulders in Jon’s lap as always, except he was clearly wide-awake and had his guitar resting on his stomach. Jon’s now ever-present notebook was resting on Richie’s chest, just below his collarbone, and the pair of them were tossing the latest song lyric back and forth like a volleyball, Richie strumming chords every now and again while Jon sang and swore and scribbled in the notebook, his hand effortlessly matching the rhythm of Richie’s breathing.

The pair of them were practically _living_ in the studio these days, never mind the fact that Jon’s house was on the _same damn property_ , so it never surprised Tico that they were always still there when he left and back before he returned. It became so normal to find the pair of them sharing breathing space on the couch that it didn’t strike him as odd until he walked into the crash room one day and found them sitting _next to_ , rather than _on top of_ , one another, both red in the face and looking.... rumpled.

When he asked, genuinely concerned, if either of them was running a fever, Richie snickered and said _no, he was naturally that hot_ , and Jon turned his head away and muttered something about the flu going around.

They were both probably handing him a load of bullshit, but whatever. He changed a few settings on Dave’s keyboard just to annoy the guy - because honestly, if he couldn’t get there when everyone else was there, he should damn well expect stuff like that to happen - got his drumsticks out of the padlocked box he kept them in - no sense in risking another plumber’s bill - and settled in to work.

The next morning when he got there, Jon looked more rumpled than ever, his forehead damp with sweat and his face red, and his shirt was buttoned wrong.

“Jon, are you sure you’re okay? If you’re sick, man, you need to take time off. They can wait for the damn album,” Tico assured him, but Richie shook his head and snickered that he was keeping a _very_ close eye on Jon’s health, waggling his eyebrows obscenely as he said so, as though there was supposed to be something wrong with looking out for their boss.

“You’re an ass,” Tico told him, glancing at their leader in confusion as Jon muttered curses and fixed his shirt. Richie grinned at him in response, nose crinkling, and Tico shook the whole thing out of his mind before turning to Dave’s keyboard again. Honestly, when would the guy learn?

A couple of days later, he got to the studio a little earlier than usual and walked into the crash room without thinking about Jon’s mysterious fever or Richie’s perverted eyebrows or anything else, and blinked at the sight of Jon frantically yanking the zipper of his jeans up, his breath coming in pants and his eyes glazed, while Richie, still on his knees on the floor between Jon’s legs, insolently wiped his mouth, smirking like the cat who’d just gotten the canary.

Or the cream.

 _Oh, fucking God._

Richie tracked him down a couple of minutes later in the nearest bathroom, his smile widening to face-splitting proportions and chewing far too obviously on a breath mint.

“Exhibitionist,” Richie remarked, trying to look apologetic and smug all at the same time and somehow succeeding. “Discovery fantasies.”

“He’s a damned rock star, of course he’s an exhibitionist,” Tico snapped back, trying very hard to put his mind back on the album and not on the sofa. He didn’t object to the pair of them doing... what they’d been doing.... but wrapping his head around it was going to take a minute or two. Wrapping his head around the fact that he hadn’t figured it out sooner was gonna take a lot longer than that. “Are we working today, or what?”

“When are we not working?” Richie asked, his expression utterly innocent, and oh, he was just _begging_ for Tico to say it, and Tico was so damned _not_ rising to the bait.

They went back to the crash room and found Jon still lying on the couch, clamping a pillow over his face with both hands, either taking the ostrich approach to the whole situation or trying to suffocate himself.

Richie, apparently not caring for either option, strolled over and casually grabbed a handful of Jon through his jeans.

Jon sat up with a yelp, nearly bashing heads with Richie, and rattled off what was probably every profanity he’d ever learned and a few he made up right on the spot. Richie grinned so wide Tico was afraid the top of his head was going to fall off, grabbed his guitar, and lay down on the couch, dropping his head into Jon’s lap.

Tico dicked with the keyboard again and sat down with the firm resolution to start carrying his cymbals around with him and dropping them as soon as he entered the building.

A couple of weeks went by, and Tico, loathe to ruin his cymbals, developed a habit of slamming doors that got him bitched at everywhere _but_ the studio, where he would slam and count slowly to five hundred before proceeding up the stairs to the crash room, where he would be met with a red-faced, sweat-damp Jon and an increasingly smug Richie, greet them as casually as possible given what he knew perfectly well his door-slamming had warned them to finish up.

And then, after about three weeks of constant door-slamming, he slammed the door, turned around, and then slammed directly into Dave, who was staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “What’d the door do to you, anyway?” Dave asked, and Tico gaped at him for a minute before realizing that the goldfish look isn’t even attractive on a goldfish and slamming his mouth shut as well. He wasn’t going to explain door-slamming and Jon and Richie on the _one day_ Lemma had decided to haul his ass in on time -

“Shit! Dave! Wait!”

“Wait for what?” the keyboardist answered, already halfway up the stairs. “We’re not gonna get any work done in the lobby.”

Crap. That’d been what, the count of twelve? “Dave!”

Ah, hell.

The disadvantage to being the short one in the group - other than the jokes - was the fact that it took him a damn bit longer to cover the stairs than the rest of them, and by the time he caught up with Dave, the bastard was already strolling into the crash room without a care in the world. From outside the doorway, Tico could hear his casual “Yo,” of greeting and ducked around the doorway, thinking maybe they’d lucked out, and Jon and Richie hadn’t been -

Well, fuck.

Literally.

Richie still had his shirt on, but that was pretty much it. Jon was pinned beneath him on the couch, his face trying to decide whether to go red or white and not quite being able to settle. Richie, apparently frozen more or less in midmotion, bent his elbows a little to drop a bit closer to Jon, trying to hide him, Tico guessed, although the position they were in really didn’t leave much to the imagination anyway.

“Yo?” Jon finally repeated, thumping a fist into Richie’s shoulder and sitting up a little bit when the other man moved - not sitting up _much_ , partly because his legs were still around Richie’s waist, and Richie was still... yeah.

“Lemma, you walk in on us with Richie’s dick up my ass and you say ‘Yo’?!” Jon continued, looking somewhere between incredulous and mortified, and Dave shrugged as he checked the settings on his keyboard. For once, they were actually the way he left them, and he nodded faintly in approval before glancing back up to answer Jon’s question.

“Well, what did you want me to say? ‘Having fun?’”

Jon’s face elected red the undisputed winner, and Richie started giggling like a drunken hyena, which made Jon twitch and go even redder. When Tico continued to stand there imitating a stoned trout and Dave continued puttering with his keyboard, Jon finally managed, in a rather strangled tone, to spit out, “Do you guys _mind_?”

“Not at all,” Dave answered casually, before Tico could collect his brains. “Go right ahead.”

Jon made an incoherent, scandalized sound, and Dave blinked, looking up from his keyboard again. “Oh. Sorry. You wanted privacy?”

At Jon’s terse nod, Dave’s solution was to wrestle his keyboard around so that it - and therefore he - was facing away from the couch - and therefore Jon and Richie - and to produce his noise-canceling headphones. Plugging them in, he threw the keyboard into headphone-only mode and sat down with the sheet music from their latest piece, humming faintly to himself while two of his bandmates remained very naked and very... together on the couch.

“ _David!_ ” squawked Jon, but Richie, apparently bored with the delay, shifted his hips a little bit, and Jon threw his head back with a whine that made even Tico uncomfortable in a very pleasant manner, and, fuck, he shouldn’t be thinking like that because that was _Jon and Richie_ on the couch, his _friends_ , not some goddamned porn that he could just get his jollies off on.

He escaped to the bathroom to remedy his, err, difficulties, and yanked out his iPod as an extra precaution.

He decided the Fates hated him when giving it a quick shake-to-shuffle came up with ‘Lay Your Hands On Me.’


End file.
